


The Lucky Fact of Your Existence

by LayALioness



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fusion - Catfish, Internet Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:30:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“My sister thinks you’re a predator,” he blurts, and Octavia looks at him over her shoulder, entirely unimpressed.</p><p>“What?” </p><p>“She was worried you weren’t who you said you were,” he explains. “She called Catfish. We’re like, ten minutes away from your house. Surprise," he says lamely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lucky Fact of Your Existence

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally no idea where this even came from. I've seen the show Catfish, like, twice maybe? Anyway, here we are.
> 
> Title from Whatever, Whenever by Shakira

Bellamy rubs his face to keep from screaming. “O, what the fuck?” His voice is impressively steady, but he knows they can tell he’s pissed off.

“It’s for your own good,” his sister declares, standing between him and the camera crew because—what, does she think he’s going to maul them? Sure, he’s been shooting the lens a few glares every few minutes, but he does have _some_ standards.

“Tell me _exactly_ why you thought this was a good idea,” he demands. “Or who put you up to it—was it Miller? I’m gonna kick his ass.” In reality, Bellamy knows Miller probably had nothing to do with the conspiracy. Miller, as a sort of general rule, gives no fucks about Bellamy’s personal life. Mostly he just keeps the freezer stocked with Tostitos, and makes out with his boyfriend a lot in his room.

“You’re not kicking anyone’s ass,” Octavia huffs, arms crossed and shoulders tensed. Her hair’s still cornrowed from when Indra decided to experiment on her. Half of her head is shaved, with the buzzed hair there dyed blue. It’s an interesting look, but he still hasn’t really gotten used to it being on his little sister.

” _I_ called Wick,” she says, like she actually _knows_ the guy standing in his living room. She doesn’t, but she’s marathoned the show enough to feel like she does. “For you. You don’t even know if she’s _real_ , Bell.”

“She’s real,” Bellamy growls, scowling at Wick. He looks the same as he does on television—scruffy beard, sandy hair, constantly in cargo shorts. What a douchebag.

Wick holds his hands up in mild surrender, looking all the world like he doesn’t know what he did to be put in this position. “Okay, cool,” he shrugs. “If she’s real, then you finally get to meet her face-to-face and make out or whatever.” He licks his lips, hesitant, and Bellamy lets his glare deepen. “And if she’s _not_ real,” he continues, “Then you’ll know for sure.”

Bellamy goes to snap at the lot of them, _again_ , but then stops himself. He does _want_ to see Clarke, and not over skype, or Facetime. He wants to see more than her pictures on Facebook, or Instagram. He wants to watch her create the art she posts on Tumblr. He wants to take dumb pictures together and tag her with things like _hangingwiththeprincess_. He wants something tangible, someone he can hold and kiss and touch—he _wants that_ so much it fucking hurts.  

He nods, a little jaggedly. “Okay,” he sighs. “But only because you’re footing the bill for me to visit my girlfriend.”

“I do hope she’s real, Bell,” Octavia says softly, once the crew has packed up and left. They’re staying at the Red Roof Inn down the road, and he knows they’re probably googling so far into Clarke G.’s past that by this time tomorrow he’ll know who her fucking first kiss was in the second grade.

Not that he couldn’t ask her, himself, of course, but. How would he even start that conversation? _Hey so my sister thinks you’re really a forty-year-old man jacking off to the dick pics I sent you, so she called Catfish and we’re gonna just show up at your house next week_? Somehow, he doesn’t think that would go over too well.

Bellamy sighs and leans his head on her shoulder. “I know.” They’re on the couch watching old Shark Week reruns, because they make him feel better about the universe in general. Everything’s okay; somewhere in the ocean, there are sharks eating things.

He made Clarke watch the whole episode of baby sharks being born of the coast of the Bahamas, and he could hear her sniffling over the phone.

“They are medical _miracles_ , Bellamy,” she’d said hotly, trying to cover up the fact that she was getting emotional over a bunch of very large fish.

Contrary to what his friends, and sister, have to say about it, Bellamy isn’t naïve when it comes to romance. When he and Clarke first started, over a heated debate about women in historical fiction in a Reddit forum of all things, he’d known it was possible that she wasn’t who she said she was. He’s seen _Catfish_ , too.

But then they traded emails, and phone numbers, and became friends on Facebook and twitter and Tumblr. They skyped, they snapchatted. She even has a Vine account that she forgets about most of the time, and is entirely dedicated to funny voiceovers of her cat Donatello—named for the ninja turtle, not the artist like he’d assumed.

Sure, he still doesn’t know what the G. stands for, and while he knows she’s a med student at OHSU, she hasn’t actually introduced him to any of her friends or family. She knows about O, through pictures and sometimes if she’s in the corner of the frame during their video chats, but she’s never mentioned her parents. He knows she’s an only child, and has two best friends—Wells and Raven. But he doesn’t know what they look like, beyond the vague _hot, I guess,_ that she gave when he asked her.

It should be _easy_ , to tell her about this. He should just ask for pictures of her mom and dad, or roommates, or friends. He should save up his money and buy a plane ticket and spend a three-day weekend wrapped around her in her bed.

He knows what her bed looks like; all soft sheets and big pillows, with a galaxy print comforter she likes to kick off in the middle of the night. He’s dreamed about that bed and, specifically, her in it.

But instead Bellamy ignores her _good morning!_ text because he’s a coward, and he knows that if he tries to respond, he’ll just word-vomit all over the place and scare her off for good.

So now he’s pacing in the living room, waiting for the crew to show up with whatever virtual skeletons they’ve uncovered, while Miller looks on from the couch, unimpressed.

“Dude,” he says, clearly disappointed in him, and shoves a spoonful of Kix in his mouth.

“I know,” Bellamy snaps, because he’s not about to deny it, but he also isn’t going to talk about it unless forced.

“What if she’s, like, a secret spy?” Monty muses, from the other side of the couch, and Miller feeds him the next spoonful. They’ve been dating for the last two months, and it’s still nauseating. There’s a lot of mooning from over the table, and then giggling in Miller’s room.

Bellamy tells himself it just annoys him because it’s distracting, and he’s usually busy proofreading or something. It’s not at all because he’s jealous, because they get to touch the person they’re in love with whenever they want.

“Then we’ll have hot spy sex,” Bellamy decides. “Like in _Mr. and Mrs. Smith_.” Miller snorts, and he pointedly ignores him.

“I’m rooting for you guys,” Monty chirps, and Bellamy gives him a fond smile.

“Me too.”

Wick arrives with the two main cameramen—a stoic looking man named Lincoln, who mans the camera, while Murphy just sort of disdainfully holds the boom mic above their heads. Wick looks solemn and ridiculous in his shorts and high-tops.

“We found her real identity,” he says, grave, and Bellamy’s heart stops.

Octavia, who had arrived with the film crew, having probably stalked their twitter accounts and hidden in the bushes until she could just _happen_ to run into them, grips his arm. “Who is she?” she demands. “Or he. What did they lie about?”

“ _She_ is Clarke Griffin,” Wick says, turning his ipad so they can see the screen. It’s Clarke, looking like he’s never seen her; hair sleek and perfectly coifed, wearing a pressed beige skirt-suit, with painted red lips. She’s as stunning as ever, but distant, and strange. She doesn’t look like _his_ Clarke, constantly paint-stained and sleep deprived and a little bit grumpy. He likes his Clarke better.

“Congresswoman Griffin’s daughter,” Wick adds, and Bellamy chokes.

“ _That’s_ what she lied about?” Octavia asks, clearly a little disappointed, and Bellamy frowns. She was supposed to be on his side, but he’s starting to think she was secretly betting on his girlfriend turning out to be one of those To Catch A Predator guys. She’s probably mad that she won’t get to punch anybody.

“She didn’t _really_ lie,” Wick hedges, pushing the ipad a little closer to Bellamy, so he can scroll through the photos. There are dozens, of all ages. He sees a few blurry ones of Clarke as a little girl, on the shoulders of a man that must be her father. But in all the recent ones, he’s gone, and Clarke just stands professional and cold by her mother at the press conferences. “She _is_ a med student at OSHU, and all the accounts you know of seem to be real. But, since she is a public figure, it’s possible somebody took her identity and has used it to create their own online persona.”

“We’ve _skyped_ ,” Bellamy says dryly. “I don’t know why you guys keep ignoring that.”

Wick just shrugs, while Octavia glares at him. “Skype’s pixelated,” he says. “Blurry. If she’s blonde haired, blue eyed, she could easily pass as this girl,” he points to the business woman Clarke on the screen.

Bellamy stares at the strange Clarke for a long moment, and shakes his head. “It’s her,” he says, firm. He _has_ to think she’s who she says she is, that these last five months have actually _meant something_. He doesn’t know what he’ll do, if it hasn’t. “But I still want to meet face-to-face.”

Wick breaks out in a wide grin, clapping Bellamy’s shoulder like a proud father. The whole thing’s absurd. “Atta boy,” he crows, clapping both hands together.

Murphy drops the boom mic on his head. “Oops,” he deadpans, and no one believes him for a second.

“Guess we’re driving to Portland,” Octavia grumbles, but he can tell she’s excited. O loves road trips.

Bellamy wets his lips, glancing back at the ipad. He can’t seem to help himself. “Yeah,” he says, mouth dry. “Guess so.”

He texts Clarke when they’re fifteen minutes out. It’s taken them three days to make the trip, because he and O had to call off work, and the fifteen hour drive had to be split up, even with the five of them. Plus, you can only sit squished in a van with four other people for so long before you start to go insane, so they stayed the night at a Quality Inn somewhere in Kansas, and then continued on in the morning.

Lincoln’s driving the last stretch, and Octavia’s sprawled out in the front seat, which doesn’t even make sense since she has the smallest legs of everyone there, but. Bellamy lets Murphy and Wick grumble about it on either side of him; he has bigger things to worry about.

Namely, that he’s about to meet— _really_ meet—Clarke for the first time.

If she even _is_ Clarke, which is the other big worry.

He leans forward and rests his chin on O’s shoulder, because he doesn’t care what it says about him; his little sister always makes him feel better—when she’s not actively trying to piss him off.

“If you had to pick, would you rather she’s some sexual predator taking advantage of me, or just an identity thief with a heart of gold?” he asks, and Octavia hums, thoughtfully.

“Identity thief, obviously,” she says, and then scrunches her nose a little. “Actually, sexual predator. That way I could kick his ass on TV and no one would really blame me for it.”

“You probably shouldn’t kick anyone’s ass on TV,” Bellamy says mildly. “Then they have proof that you did it.”

“Unless it’s RAW,” she argues, and Bellamy rolls his eyes. Octavia’s been trying to get into wrestling since high school, and while she’s a ferocious fighter, and definitely scrappy, she would definitely ignore all the scripts and choreography in favor of just breaking the other girl’s nose.

Wick nudges Bellamy in the shoulder, and he pulls back. “It’s time,” Wick says, holding his camcorder, the one he's been using to get all the behind-the-scenes footage of their road trip. Bellamy's not sure how exciting all their mindless bickering over radio stations, and the number of bathroom breaks for Wick's poor bladder control, could possibly be. But Wick's the expert; Bellamy's just along for the ride.

Wick nods to the phone Bellamy’s been clutching like a lifeline. He nods, and swallows. Breathes.

He finds her contact— _Princess_ with a crown emoji—and hits dial.

“ _Bellamy?_ ” she asks, on the second ring. She sounds breathless, like she ran to pick up the phone, and he grins down at his legs.

“We have to talk,” he says, and winces when her breath hitches.

“ _About?_ ”

“My sister thinks you’re a predator,” he blurts, and Octavia looks at him over her shoulder, entirely unimpressed.

“ _What?_ ” At least she sounds like she’s about to laugh, instead of yelling at him. So far, so good.

“She was worried you weren’t who you said you were,” he explains. “She called _Catfish_. We’re like, ten minutes away from your house.”

There’s a pause, and he actively does not have a stroke, but it comes close.

“Surprise,” he says lamely, and sighs. “I know you wanted to wait to meet, but I thought maybe—” He’s cut off when she finally does laugh, which is definitely a better reaction than he was expecting. Namely, lots of yelling. Clarke can get intense.

“ _You idiot,_ ” she says, affectionate. “ _How far out are you?_ ” She sounds excited, not anxious or wary at all, like she’s just fucking psyched to _see_ him, and Bellamy can’t stop the stupid grin that’s spreading on his face.

Lincoln took a wrong turn somewhere, so they’re stuck in a roundabout while O tries to reset the GPS.

“Maybe twenty minutes?” he guesses. O’s the actual _worst_ at navigating.

“ _Cool, I don’t have any groceries,_ ” she chirps. “ _I can pick us up a pizza too, if you want._ ”

Bellamy’s sort of at a loss for words by now. His girlfriend is offering to buy snacks, after he’s basically told her he’s showing up at her door with a film crew, to prove she’s not some con artist with a weird foot fetish or something.

And then he laughs, because he’s so gone for her that even a weird foot fetish wouldn’t really be a deal-breaker.

“ _What?_ ” she asks, a little annoyed. She thinks he’s laughing at her.

“How do you not have groceries?” he teases, because anything else he could say would be embarrassingly sappy, and he’s not really prepared to seem that pathetic on national television.

“ _Shut up_ ,” she says, but there’s no real heat to it. “ _Med-student. I usually just eat at the vending machines._ ”

“Your life sounds tragic,” he decides, serious, and she snorts into the phone.

“ _I can’t believe I love you,_ ” she says, completely casual, like this isn’t the first time she’s ever said it. Like she hasn’t just completely altered his world. “ _See you soon, loser._ ”

“I love you too,” he says, almost desperate, and he can hear the smile in her voice.

“ _Obviously_ ,” she agrees. “ _You tricked an MTV show to pay for you to come see me._ ”

“I know my priorities,” he grins, and she laughs.

“ _Soon, Bell_ ,” she promises, and hangs up.

“I take it the call went well, then?” Wick says, looking smug, and Bellamy’s too happy to hate him for it.

“I’m about to see my girlfriend,” he shrugs. “There will be a lot of making out, and hopefully sex.” Octavia makes a noise of disgust in the front, and he turns his nose up. “You have no one to blame but yourself,” he tells her, and starts texting Clarke pictures of all the ridiculous street names they pass.

They end up arriving at the house fifteen minutes early, because Murphy is essentially a human compass that only really works when he wants to, and his leg was starting to cramp, so he wanted to speed things up.

The house itself is a lot plainer than he’d expected, of a Congresswoman’s daughter, at least. But it’s still nice, and in a nice neighborhood, with actual flower boxes filled with pansies under each window.

“Ready?” Wick asks him, as Murphy sets up the mic and Lincoln hefts the camera up on his shoulder. It’s only been a few days, but Bellamy’s gotten pretty used to them by now, and can easily tune them out.

He stares at the front door, like he’s willing it to open up on its own. “For a few months, now.”

They knock, because they are regular people, and then when there’s no immediate answer, Octavia kicks it, because she _really_ wanted to kick something on this trip.

To Bellamy’s immediate horror, a dark-skinned boy who is very definitely _not_ Clarke, opens the door. He’s wearing sweatpants and a Henley, with bare feet.

“Uh,” Bellamy says, and Octavia looks like she’s trying very hard to tell if she should punch the new guy or not.

“You must be Bellamy,” the boy grins, stepping back so they can all file in. “Clarke told us you wouldn’t be here for a while.”

“Yeah, well,” Bellamy shrugs, feeling awkward. He’d been building this moment up in his head—she was going to answer the door right before he could knock, and she’d throw herself at him while he spinned her around, knocking over all their friends and furniture.

Instead, now he just feels like he shouldn’t really be here. This space is nice, and orderly, and clearly has a routine, and he’s sort of ruined it by crashing in unexpected. He’s throwing everything off.

“So you’re the chew toy,” a voice calls, and they turn to see a pretty Latina girl appear from one of the back rooms down the hall. She’s wearing a pair of bicycle shorts and a sports bra, and looks ready for a 10k.

“Raven, be nice,” Wells teases, and she smirks, scrutinizing each visitor one by one, before stopping on Bellamy.

“She really likes you,” she shoots, almost like an accusation, and Wells sighs heavily.

“I know,” Bellamy says, mild. He doesn’t really know this girl, but he’s ninety-nine percent sure that if she knew how completely into her roommate he was, she’d never let him live it down. “I really like her too.”

“You should,” she says. “Don’t fuck it up.”

Octavia snorts beside him. “He won’t,” she assures her, though her eyes gleam a little dangerously. She’s still itching for a fight, and Raven probably seems like her best bet. Bellamy takes a moment to pray his little sister doesn’t get in a bareknuckle brawl in Clarke’s nice house. “Bell’s a romantic. He probably bought a ring after the first skype date.”

Bellamy frowns and pulls one of her braids. “You’re such a brat. Who invited you? Seriously, why are you here?”

“That’s not a denial,” she gloats, and he shoves her.

“So how long have you two known about Bellamy?” Wick asks, slipping back into his role as show host. So far there’s been very little conspiracy or intrigue; it can’t really make for an exciting episode, Bellamy’s sure.

Raven and Wells shrug in tandem. “Since the beginning,” Wells says. “Clarke sucks at keeping secrets. She caved the day after you asked her out.”

“She didn’t want us scaring him off,” Raven adds, and Wells looks at her fondly.

“She didn’t want _you_ scaring him off,” he corrects, tangling their fingers so she slides in against his side. “You’re very intimidating.”

“Damn right,” she agrees, pleased, and then they’re staring at each other with enough heat for the rest of them to feel uncomfortable.

“Why did Clarke keep her identity a secret?” Wick presses, clearly trying to get them all back to what’s important; good television.

“Look,” Wells starts, “Abby—Clarke’s mom—she hasn’t been the…most _accepting_ in the past—”

“Abby’s a dick when it comes to Clarke’s love life,” Raven interrupts, bluntly staring at the camera. “She loves her kid, obviously, but she doesn’t really _get_ her. Clarke’s last real relationship was with an art student named Lexa, and Abby sort of ran her off.” She shakes her head a little, clearly annoyed with the whole thing. “Not—she didn’t care that Lexa was a girl, or anything. She thought that since she was an art major, she wouldn’t really amount to anything. She thought Clarke could do better.”

Bellamy stays quiet, though he knows they’re all watching him, waiting for a reaction. Finally, he says “That sucks.” Raven snorts a little, and Octavia just shakes her head, supremely disappointed. “But I’m not an art major,” he adds. “Plus I have a steady income already, so…”

“I highly doubt that’ll impress her,” Raven deadpans, and Bellamy shrugs.

“That’s cool; I’m not trying to date the Congresswoman. I’m dating her daughter, and her daughter likes me, so that’s what counts.”

Octavia mimes gagging in the background, but it’s more halfhearted than usual, which he thinks means she’s secretly proud.

Clarke bursts through the door, slamming Murphy against the wall in the process.

“Oh, shit,” she says, glancing at him apologetically. Then she turns and takes in the rest of the strangers, with an arm full of groceries and wide eyes. “Oh, shit,” she breathes again, and Bellamy laughs.

He steps forward, taking one of the bags easily so she can readjust the other. “I’m assuming you want these in the kitchen?” he says, but it’s hard to focus on anything other than how perfect she is, beaming up at him, and how his smile’s so wide it hurts.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, equally distracted.

“I need you to lead the way,” he teases, and she flushes all down her neck before bustling through the room.

It sounds like Wick is still questioning the roommates, so Bellamy helps Clarke unpack the grocery bags, letting her show him where everything goes. Finally, once all the perishables are dealt with, he turns and winds a hand through her hair. She freezes where she’d been sorting the vegetables, and tips her head back to look at him.

“Hi,” he says, low and private. Just for her.

“Hi,” she whispers, rising up on her toes. She kisses him soft and languid, and then tugs on his lip with her fucking teeth.

He groans, backing her up into the counter before sliding her up on top of it, shoving grapefruits and cucumbers to the floor in their haste.

His hand is at the hem of her shirt, just dipping under to feel the skin there, when someone clears their throat in the doorway.

“Oh my god, _my eyes_ ,” Octavia cries, and Bellamy glances over just in time to see her run out.

He goes to pull away, but Clarke keeps her legs locked around his waist, arms loose around his shoulders, and he grins. She doesn’t want to let go.

He gets it.

Lincoln’s standing in the entrance, with the camera relaxed in his arms. He’s not filming them, which Bellamy’s thankful for. Clarke probably wouldn’t appreciate their first make out session going viral.

“We’re about to do individual interviews,” the cameraman explains, shifting a little. He’s nervous, and awkward, and if Bellamy wasn’t pretty positive that he’s been texting his sister, he might actually like the guy.

“We’ll be right there,” Clarke tells him, sounding prim. Her fingers curl through his hair and tug a little until he whines. “We have some catching up to do, first.”

“Right,” Lincoln says, not believing her for a minute. “Of course.” He shuffles out, and Clarke tugs Bellamy back in against her, mewling as he licks the roof of her mouth.

“You’re not mad, right?” he asks, a little breathless, and she pulls back from where she’d been sucking on the skin of his neck.

“Furious,” she says, voice so low he shivers. “How are you gonna make it up to me?”

Bellamy stares back at her, fingers digging into her hips. She’s still moving, giving soft little grinds against his crotch, just enough so that he’s burning. “I have a few ideas,” he murmurs, pulling her shirt down so he can bite a bruise into the swell of her breast. “Christ,” he mutters. “Every _fucking_ picture, or video—you’re wearing a fucking tank top, or some little dress shirt with the top buttons undone,” she keens when he bites at her nipple through her bra. “I’ve been thinking about these for _months_ ,” he dips his fingers into her Soffee’s and finds her slick already.

“Don’t even,” she pants, pulling him impossibly closer, grinding against the heel of his hand. “Have you fucking _seen yourself_?” she demands, nails digging into his skin. “Your arms are—nng,” he cuts her off with his mouth, slipping two fingers inside her.

“As cute as this goddamned love story is, could you two _please_ unhinge from one another and answer this stupid man’s stupid questions?” Raven drawls, leaning against the wall, disinterested in them and all that they stand for.

From the living room, comes Wick’s affronted _Hey!_ But Raven just rolls her eyes.

Bellamy steps back enough so he can help her fix her shirt, where the hem’s rucked up and the neckline’s dipped down. She catches his hand when he goes to untangle her hair, and nips the tip of his finger while he stares.

Raven groans, exasperated, and says something vaguely threatening in Spanish as he helps Clarke down to the floor.

“Questions first,” he says, more to himself than anything. “Sex later.”

“I’m going to vomit,” Raven declares, following them out to the soft leather couch.  

Lincoln’s set the camera up on one of the end tables, propped up with a pile of books that doesn’t look at all professional, while Murphy just sort of hovers around the periphery. Wick sits across from them in the easy chair, and Clarke grips Bellamy’s hand when they sit, playing with his fingers.

“So,” Wick starts, cheerfully. He _might_ be the third happiest person in the room. “How did you two find each other?”

They share a look—it’s a private joke for them, really. Clarke screenshotted their first conversation, that stupid debate on Reddit, and they both have it set as their wallpapers.

“I mentioned something about history in this chatroom,” Clarke chirps, “And Bellamy, being the nerd that he is, decided he had to correct me—”

“You were _wrong_ ,” Bellamy groans, but his grin kind of ruins it.

“And you were an asshole,” Clarke shoots back, just as bright. She turns back to Wick and the camera. “He called me a spoiled princess,” she says, as evidence.

“You are a spoiled princess,” he argues, but it sounds more fond than anything, and he digs out his phone to show the camera. “I still have her saved as Princess in here.”

“Clarke, what’s Bellamy’s contact name?” Wick asks, and Clarke pulls out her enormous Galaxy. She hands it to Wick, who just looks confused. “It’s an eggplant emoji,” he says, and somewhere in the background, Raven cackles.

“It’s for his dick,” Clarke says, completely serious, and Bellamy presses a kiss to her hair while O blanches in the background.

“It’s cool how you objectify me,” he teases, and Clarke scoffs.

“Like you don’t have a thing for my boobs,” she says, and he shrugs. She has a point.

“So we can be shallow together,” he grins, and she beams up at him before glancing back to Wick.

“Is that it?” she asks, impatient, and Bellamy can’t help but laugh, because his girlfriend is trying to rush through a _Catfish_ interview, so she can jump him in the bathroom. He’s not sure when his life started feeling surreal, but he isn’t about to _stop_ her.

“What about the grand reveal?” Wick asks, “The big Nicholas Sparks moment, where you each knew the other was _the_ _one_!” He seems very intent on giving their story an intense, happy ending.

“When he sent me a picture of his dick,” Clarke deadpans, and Bellamy just grins, and squeezes her hand.

He’s never letting go.


End file.
